


Reunion

by CenozoicSynapsid



Category: The Golden Gate - Vikram Seth
Genre: M/M, Poetry, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CenozoicSynapsid/pseuds/CenozoicSynapsid
Summary: Reader, I see the question strike youSitting around one night, quite late:There’s fic for everything I like, youSay, so why not for Golden Gate?You’ve found my story. Will you readIt? Can I tempt you to proceed?You check the tags; they look all right,And reading it won’t take all night.Phil/Ed, you muse. The starcrossed lovers.Chapter eight left them in the lurchConflicted over bed and church.I wonder if this fic discoversSome way to match them up againOr else, at least to ease their pain?





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisatsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/gifts).



When Liz was younger, people told her  
That her ideals couldn’t last:  
People get wiser when they’re older,  
And leave their anger in the past.  
Liz, though, now she’s grown older, finds  
She’s not complacent, nor inclined  
To wave her hand at the unjust  
And say “The world was ever thus.”  
She works pro bono fairly often  
Now that the kids are out of school  
And once or twice she’s lost her cool  
When prosecutors thought she’d soften;  
Age hasn’t robbed her of her starch.  
She still knows how to chant and march.

Today the sign she’s proudly raising  
Says “Truth must triumph! No fake news!”  
The crowd is huge. She feels amazing.  
Beside her, though, Phil fights the blues.  
Though all of this is quite well-meant  
Nothing gets done by mere intent,  
And nowadays, for all their striving  
He feels, the ship of state is driving  
Toward the rocks, the wheel askew.  
“When this is over, do you mind  
If I go off a while and find  
A quiet place an hour or two?  
I’ll sit somewhere till I feel sane.  
This stuff is weighing on my brain.”

The signs are packed, the rally ends,  
And Phil hugs Liz and walks away.  
“I’ll get the train,” he says, “and send  
A text. You’re sure this is okay?”  
“Of course it is. You’ve got your phone  
If you get sick of time alone.  
I get it. Sometimes I doubt too  
Whether it matters what we do.”  
Phil ambles, aimless, up the hill,  
Hoping the scene can soothe him. Through  
Thick fog, downtown comes into view:  
Skyscrapers hover, tall and still,  
Like space invaders— are they real,  
These monoliths of glass and steel?

Have you, like Phil, walked through the valley  
Beneath the shadow of finance,  
Till, turning down some half-seen alley,  
You glimpsed the living green of plants?  
Phil wanders through this small oasis  
Calmed by the sight of human faces:  
Of toddlers piling heaps of sand,  
A teenage couple, hand in hand,  
And, seated at a wobbly table  
Two men bent staring at a board  
Where tiny knights defend their lord  
In livery of white and sable.  
It’s the one war that Phil commends,  
This careful combat fought by friends.

He mostly plays online these days  
But, looking on, finds he can see  
The pattern forming in their plays:  
“Wrong move,” he thinks. “Now mate in three.”  
I’m just as good as them— ah hell:  
“When you’re done, can I play as well?”  
“When this one’s done,” says White. “I’m still  
Game for another. Glad to— Phil?!”  
“Ed? Can it be? What brings you here?  
I haven’t heard from you in ages!  
I thought you were among the sages  
In Rome— Liz said you called last year.”  
“That was a few years now.” “It’s such  
A pity we don’t stay in touch.”

But temperatures, at first so frigid  
Grow warmer as they start the game.  
Phil thinks, “These days he’s far less rigid.”  
And Ed, “It really is a shame  
To live so near and call so rarely.”  
“The year Dad died,” he says, “I barely  
Managed to cope. But what’s the use  
In offering a lame excuse?”  
“No need for one,” says Phil. “Mike dying,  
I think, put all of us through hell.  
He really didn’t want to sell  
The vineyard. But it wasn’t fair  
To think he could make you his heir.”

“Yeah, I made good at last, I figure.  
This year I’m the department chair  
Of history. It would feel bigger  
If Dad could see.” “You know he’d care.”  
“I know.” The game goes on in silence  
A minute, swift and brutal violence  
Ensuing, as Phil’s queen descends  
With vengeance for her fallen friends.  
“You’ve got this one.” Ed’s king’s conceded.  
Phil wonders: “Do the pawns resent  
Self-sacrifice without consent?  
Or could this be the chance they needed  
To start the Pawn Republic?” “Oh,  
If you feel that way, take up Go.”

“There’s all the strategy and planning  
Sans aristocracy and greed.”  
The conversation spirals, spanning  
The afternoon with pleasant speed.  
“Pause this a moment,” Phil says, glancing  
Down at his phone and the advancing  
Hour. “It’s later than I thought.  
Look— Liz would love it if I brought  
You back to dinner. Yes, I’m sure!  
And— should have asked, of course— if you  
Are seeing someone, bring him too!  
Since all the kids moved out, there’s more  
Food than we need. With cooking, I’ve  
Gotten too used to serving five.”

“That’s very kind,” Ed says. “Absurdly  
So. I’ve got nothing planned tonight.  
So if you’re serious—” “You heard me.”  
“You’re sure?” “Insistent.” “Well, all right.  
No partner though. I’ve tried on Tinder,  
But, well, I guess my flame’s a cinder  
That nowadays takes more to light  
Than endless swiping left and right.  
Is that okay?” “Of course it is.  
Why would it not be?” “Well, I guess—  
I just keep thinking of the stress  
You bringing me might put on Liz.  
I don’t want her to think this means  
That I still dream of might-have-beens.”

“Ed, don’t say you’ve kept your distance  
From thinking we’re the jealous kind  
Who married out of the insistence  
That love needs borders, that to bind  
Two people closer, means to close  
All other doors. Do you suppose  
She’d cut off her own brother, fearing  
Our long-past passion reappearing?  
We’re not like that. Actually we  
Date other people now and then,  
If we’re agreed on who and when.  
I’m not ashamed, and nor is she.  
Not that this is a date. I just  
Miss you. Come home and dine with us.”

The meal goes well. “It’s been a while,”  
Ed thinks, “Since I’ve had such a night.  
Am I confusing self-denial  
With principle again? In spite  
Of all I’ve been through? Even though  
I’m still attracted to him— so?  
Feeling things doesn’t make us sinners.”  
Through winter, and then spring, time heals  
The rift between them, till Ed feels  
The strength to say “I know our dinners  
Aren’t dates. But, Phil, I guess  
That if you asked me, I’d say yes.”

Reader, if I know you, you’re hoping  
The censor’s died since ‘86  
No more to screen from you the groping,  
The grasping hands. The gasps. The dicks.  
It’s true, that might be pretty hot  
If someone wrote it. I cannot.  
Let’s say instead: the two discover  
Love’s book still fresh although its cover  
Is stained a bit with age— but then  
Who cares? If soul and soul still mesh  
There’s fire enough in aging flesh  
For them to light the torch again  
And learn, youth’s wasted on the young.  
Plus, FYI, Phil’s pretty hung.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw your prompt this last December  
> And thought, that would be fun to try!  
> This time I managed to remember  
> And it was fun indeed— though I  
> Am not too great at writing slash.  
> This may be sentimental trash.  
> It’s certainly not Seth— alas!  
> But then, homage need not surpass  
> The master. If you’re moved to gush,  
> I shouldn’t claim the only credit;  
> To write is easier than to edit  
> So thank my beta, Kalirush.  
> And may the Yulegoat find us here,  
> Still primed to read and write, next year.


End file.
